


Run Away With Me

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn is a lot more than that. Rachel doesn’t belong here. It’s time to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Away With Me

Title: Run Away With Me  
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S2.  
Summary: Quinn is a lot more than that. Rachel doesn’t belong here. It’s time to do something about it.

  
They make the decision three weeks before graduation. It isn’t the kind of moment where people should just get up and _do_ something life-changing; there is college to consider, and friends, and the expectation of family. It isn’t the kind of moment where you just get up and bail.

Still, it is _their_ moment. Three weeks before graduation, watching _Chicago_ in Rachel’s room, joking leads to talking leads to planning. It’s just something that happens, almost completely out of the blue, and suddenly they are set to leave. The minute graduation is over, in fact.

Quinn is terrified. And humming with absolute ecstasy.

The thing is, she was never supposed to be this person. She knew at a very young age—younger than anyone should, in fact—that she wasn’t meant to leave Ohio. Maybe not even Lima. It felt like a mob arrangement: once you’re in, you’re in for life. Prep yourself for the husband with the middle-income job, the two-or-three blonde children (or brunette, given her own real genetics melded with Finn Hudson’s, since _he_ was supposed to be The Guy), the dog and the yard. Not a bad life, necessarily, but nothing to write books about. Just…the life she was supposed to lead.

The life her mother led.

Alcohol was bound to play in somewhere down the line.

She wasn’t supposed to be the person who sat up for five nights straight with Rachel Berry tying up her phone line, crawling around her room on her knees with post-its and photographs while that melodic voice sang ideas into her head. She wasn’t supposed to buy a bus ticket with money meant for dorm furniture and tuition. She wasn’t supposed to ignore her mother’s wishes involving good sense and university requirements and prep for—

But she did. And now here they are, swathed in red and white graduation garb, shuffling anxiously on McKinley’s front lawn while parents swarm and seniors announce their glee to the world. Rachel’s shoulder bumps against her arm once, twice, impatient as ever.

“Not yet,” she hisses for the third time, amused when Rachel’s lip juts out. “We can’t just run in the middle of picture time.”

Picture time is normally Rachel Berry’s forte, her very favorite moment in any atmosphere, but right now, her body is clearly primed to sprint for the door. She scowls briefly, expression clearing only when a camera lens tilts her way.

“It will be so much easier to slip out if my dads aren’t watching the door,” she gripes around a bright smile. “I know they’re going to want to partake of family Barbra-and-Monopoly night, and we really don’t have the _time_ —“

“You have plenty of time,” Quinn reassures her, gripping a small hand in her own and turning on the charm for Santana’s mother, who has been flitting around snapping photos of students her daughter probably doesn’t even _know_ for the better part of twenty minutes. “Stop worrying.”

“I have to worry!” Rachel replies, a touch too shrilly. Quinn fires her a warning look. “I have to worry,” Rachel continues in a slightly more human tone, “because _someone_ has to. You know things fall apart the second they’re expected to go according to plan. It’s Murphy’s law.”

“That’s ‘anything that can go wrong, will’,” Quinn corrects. She ought to know. She has lived every cliché in the book, from loser-to-Prom Queen (senior year did it, partially because half the Glee Club was campaigning for her and partially because she found she cared less the second time around) to teen-pregnancy-statistic. She has been there, done that, and is sincerely ready to move on. Another hour or two is not going to change that.

Rachel is not nearly so patient. “Whatever the law, we cannot allow it to take effect. We’re so close.”

 _So close_ doesn’t begin to cover it. Bus tickets, itineraries, a secretive down payment on the shoddiest apartment New York has to offer—they’re past _so close_ now and have moved to the next stage. The _it’s going to happen_ stage. The _this is real_ stage. Rachel’s hand squeezes her fingers.

The minutes tick by, punctuated by Puck and Finn hoisting Sam onto their shoulders and charging around with him, by Santana forgetting herself completely and kissing Brittany full on the mouth, by Tina and Artie throwing glitter directly into Mercedes’ weave. Quinn watches these people she has grown up with as they smile and pose and laugh, and she wonders when this all happened. When exactly did Kurt stop slouching around the school, clutching his bag to his chest like a shield, and start strutting like he owns the place? When did Finn stop treading on feet left and right and begin carrying himself with that semi-adult grace? When did Puck stop stealing from the cafeteria, and Tina stop stuttering in English class, and Santana put aside her fears to secure the relationship she has always wanted?

When, for that matter, did Quinn Fabray and Rachel Berry stop leaping at one another’s throats and become _friends_?

Friends who are inching steadily for the exit. Slipping through McKinley’s back door. Heading for the bathroom on the first floor.

There is a bag stashed inside the third stall, packed neatly with “civilian” clothes. Rachel whips her gown over her head and pushes the bundle into Quinn’s arms before bending in her pristine graduation dress to fumble in the duffel. “Jeans,” she announces, throwing the article in question back over her shoulder. “Shirt. Sweatshirt. Did you want a jacket?”

“Rachel, it’s June.” Quinn sets the crumpled gown on the sink behind her and shucks off her own top, ignoring the light blush that leaps into Rachel’s cheeks when she turns. “Stop staring.”

“I wouldn’t,” Rachel protests, modestly slipping her jeans on under her skirt before sliding it off. “Honestly, Quinn, you should know me better than that by now—“

“Rachel.” Quinn tugs her shirt down over her head and adjusts her hair in the mirror. “Shut up and get dressed.”

Theirs is not the stealthiest of plans, but it _does_ require a certain level of finesse that Quinn isn’t sure she possesses at this moment. Once properly clothed (Rachel is so anxious that it takes her four tries to tie her left sneaker; finally, Quinn edges her hand aside and does it herself), they pack away the unwanted dress clothes and stare at one another for a long moment.

“This is crazy,” Quinn breathes, but her lips are cracking a painfully broad smile. Rachel’s eyes glow with excitement.

“It’s perfect.”

“We’re running away together,” Quinn points out. “I am running away with my arch-nemesis.”

“Santana Lopez very nearly straddled another girl in front of the whole world,” Rachel dryly observes. “What we’re doing is not nearly as unexpected.”

Quinn laughs, waving a hand. “Like they haven’t done that before. You should’ve seen the 2010 Cheerio competition.”

Rachel’s giggle makes her chest flutter, her whole body gearing up for what they’re about to do. It is the most alive she has felt since Nationals, if not ever.

They need to leave this bathroom eventually, she thinks, even as Rachel’s smile begins to fade, her teeth clamping down on her bottom lip. This is the hard part. All the rest—the planning, the late night conversations, packing up Quinn’s car while Kurt and Mercedes sat inside with her mother as distractions—was cake compared to this moment.

“We have to go,” she says quietly. “They’re going to start looking for us soon.”

Her car is parked in the back lot, in Puck’s favorite spot. With his delinquent ways, he has been instrumental to this plot, which is somehow surprising. Who would have thought the boy to blame for her pregnant terror of being stuck here forever would be so helpful in getting her out?

All of them, as a matter fact, the whole of Glee—they’ve been amazing these last few weeks. Quinn hadn’t been sure about telling them, had been fairly certain at least one of the eleven would rat them out, but now that she thinks of it, she doubts they could have pulled even this much off without help. What would they have done without Sam helping to find the lowest apartment prices, or Kurt’s practical-yet-fashionable suggestions about packing, or Mike loaning the bag he once took on a trip to visit his grandparents in Beijing? Or without Finn putting together a book of fool-proof recipes (mostly variations on grilled cheese and frozen pizza preferences), or Artie combing through each of their laptops to keep them virus-free (“Who knows what kind of outrageous prices computer places would charge out there?”), or even Santana’s advice on “how to live with the midget and survive”? These people, her friends, have done the smallest, most important things in the world for her.

Two years ago, she would have thought loving the members of Glee was insane and just a little bit perverse. Now, she couldn’t care less about Old Quinn’s mindset. They’re the best friends she has ever had.

Including, and maybe _especially_ , Rachel. Who is currently chewing her lip with what looks like painful vigor.

“You ready?”

She doesn’t know about Rachel, but _she_ feels as though she has been ready for years—and yet, somehow, will never be fully prepared to take that final step out the door. Her mother is waiting outside, milling around with the other parents, with the teachers who never quite saw her, with students who only ever knew her as Cheerleader Quinn Fabray (and, for a brief spell, Broken-and-Pregnant). Her mother is waiting for her to re-emerge so they might go to dinner at Red Lobster, a meal whose conversation will be chock-full of phrases like “so proud” and “now, about university…”

The thing is, she’s got college waiting for her—a state school with very little future prospects tagging along after it—and her mother is positive that it will be enough. She believes in the power of commuting, in Quinn hanging around the house until her minimalistic degree is under her belt. She believes in the basics.

Quinn needs more.

And, thanks to Rachel, she honestly believes she is capable of it.

So, when Rachel nods with only the barest hesitation, Quinn takes her hand and squeezes hard. It’s not easy to filter courage through her skin, but they’re standing in a _bathroom_ ; anything else she could do feels like too much in a place like this.

Even though Rachel is standing what should be uncomfortably close, eyes on her lips.

Even though, for some reason, the realization a year ago that her perfect corsage had been from _this girl_ instead of her so-called perfect boyfriend had changed everything.

Even though it was _this girl_ who had followed her into the bathroom when she had fled in tears that night—just as she had followed the pregnant girl who had ruined so many lives, just as she had stood by that same girl when she had no reason to.

She smiles, squeezes again, and slings the duffel over her shoulder.

They make their way through the dim school, careful to avoid the sparse pockets of nostalgic people standing in various classrooms. In the back parking lot, right where she left it, her red car—slightly tarnished from use and a minor accident in October—gleams with anticipation.

There are two boxes in the back seat, Mike Chang’s bag, a few pillows, and a laundry bag. It’s not nearly enough for two teenage girls to start a new life—and it will probably suck when it comes to heaving everything onto a Greyhound—but Quinn is filled with joy upon seeing it. Her nerves hunker down, temporarily out of sight. Rachel bounces at her side.

“We can send the first text once we’re on board. My fathers are going to be so angry at first, but as soon as they calm down, they will be the proudest papas in the world!”

Quinn can’t imagine her mother is going to be very proud, but she can’t focus on that. This is her chance, possibly the only one she will ever get, to crawl free of this wasteland. Rachel’s hand is the only ticket out, and she owes it to herself to accept.

_“You have nothing to be scared of. You’re a very pretty girl, Quinn, the prettiest girl I’ve ever met—but you’re a lot more than that.”_

She hasn’t forgotten the words—will probably _never_ forget them—and she knows that Rachel was right. Pretty isn’t everything; for her, it is a fabrication more than anything else, something carefully constructed to hide behind. The truth is, she has brains, and drive, and—when she’s letting herself—a way with people that could get her far. All she has to do is try.

She tumbles into the driver’s seat and throws the car in gear. Rachel snaps her seatbelt into place and waits, drumming her fingers against her knees.

“Back roads,” she reminds Quinn unnecessarily, as if Quinn had been planning to drive out right on the front lawn for all to see. She rolls her eyes.

“Rachel, I’ve got this.”

The bus station is three miles from the school, a route she never expected to take. Her right leg bounces nervously against the gas pedal the whole way, gathering agitation whenever they strike a red light. Rachel’s hand closes over her own, thumb swiping gently against soft skin.

“This is going to be amazing,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Quinn smiles, eyes flicking from the road for just a second.

“Thank you.”

Brown eyes meet hers, wide and understanding. “I should say the same. You’re the one who pressed me to try this, you know.”

She knows what Rachel is referring to: that afternoon in the auditorium, the harsh, cold words she had used to push Rachel away from Finn and back into the spotlight. It was a mixed-emotion conversation, one just as equally spurred by rage and selfishness as by honesty, and she is somewhat surprised it has stayed with Rachel so strongly. It was certainly not the same as the gentle brushing away of tears in forgiveness, but somehow…

Somehow, for Rachel, it clearly meant just as much to hear Quinn snap the words, _“You don’t belong here, Rachel.”_

Because, really, she doesn’t. She never has. And, for a brief spell of Jesse throwing eggs, and Schuester cutting solos, and Santana throwing insults, and Finn slicing her self-esteem with bumbling, constant measures—for all that time, nearly two years of her life, she actually managed to forget what a star she has always been.

Quinn smiles, taking a left. “You’re going to be amazing.”

“I know,” Rachel replies simply, beaming up at her. She lifts the back of Quinn’s hand to her lips and presses a hesitant kiss there, eyes shining with admiration and excitement. “And you’re going to make your daughter proud.”

The combination of exhilaration and sorrow is almost enough to close her throat, but Quinn manages to keep her eyes on the road. Not much longer now.

Her mother is going to be beyond upset. Rachel’s fathers will probably hate her temporarily. They will miss out on every graduation party and drunken bonfire the summer has to offer. By leaving, they are losing so much.

But staying would have crippled Rachel, and it would have _killed_ Quinn. She has no illusions about that. Staying would have broken them both. And they have always deserved better.

The bus lot is just up ahead. Quinn pauses at a stop sign just long enough to swivel in her seat and claim Rachel’s lips with a brief, could-write-it-off-as-friendly kiss, grinning as she guns the engine.

_Goodbye, Lima Losers._

Hello, future.


End file.
